


Typo

by navree



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: a lil drabble thing for my newest and purest otp, my life is a sham and so is this show lbr, this wasn't supposed to become a thing and yet here it is, who am i what am i?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-04
Updated: 2017-06-04
Packaged: 2018-11-08 18:51:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11087784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/navree/pseuds/navree
Summary: Everything that springs to mind is correct in the most technical of ways, yet it all seems wrong, or insufficient, or disturbingly and disgustingly paltry.Late at night, Jughead Jones attempts to describe Veronica Lodge for his novel, and finds himself unable to capture and transfer her to simple paper.





	Typo

**Author's Note:**

> this is the rarest of rare pairs and yet here i am, trapped in this rabbit hole i willingly threw myself down.  
> as always, comments (either positive or constructive) are always welcome and much appreciated!

Even without his laptop, the words never stop coming to his head. His mind is home to a Holden Caulfield-esque stream of consciousness narrative, constantly switching direction and never coming to a conclusion. The story Jughead has crafted continues to word itself, finding new ways to twist and turn even as he lies on an uncomfortable mattress, no way to fully commit it. Fatigue has begun to burn his eyes, and yet he stares up at the ceiling, focusing on the multitude of imperfections and trying to find a way to get himself out of a both stunning and unprecedented literary funk. 

Can it be called writer's block if he isn't even writing? Can it be called writer's block if it isn't even about the story as a whole? He has no issues with the story, as it continues to unfold with all new revelations practically every week, with almost episodic dramatics. It's one a character, a newcomer, one he hadn't even anticipated to be a part of his narrative that gives him so much trouble. Various depictions rage through his head, a trillion different ways he can describe the specific black of her hair, or the way her lips curl when she smirks **_(_** not when she smiles, she smiles with her entire face, with her eyes and her cheeks and her lips and it lights up not just her but everything within a twenty foot radius of her as well **_)_** , or the way she talks with well manicured hands as much as she does with her voice, or the way her throat arches when she tosses her hair **_(_** for a variety of different reasons, he has become aware, and not simply because she is vain and likes the look of black locks scattering over her shoulders **_)_**. He has been trying, for who knows how long now, to try and pin her down, and yet every time he disappoint himself. 

 _Veronica Lodge is a raven haired girl with a family shadier than a riverbank in the early morning._ No. No because it's a horrific cliché, and from what Jughead has so far seen of her, there is far more to Veronica Lodge's family history than a simple throwaway line. 

 _The lilting voice of Veronica Lodge was as much a signal of danger and worry as a wolf's howl._ No. No because it's ridiculously out of place and makes no sense, and demonizes Veronica Lodge when she has, as of yet, done nothing to earn that vicious an introduction. 

 _A mystery cleverly disguised by designer clothes, Veronica Lodge's arrival was but the latest of a series of ripples that were constantly appearing in Riverdale._ No. No because it trivializes Veronica Lodge, makes her part of a system, a pattern, when she is anything but. 

He has been trying for a while now, each description forming in his head and then dissipating, as if Veronica Lodge herself was waving her perfect nails through the smoke of his thoughts. He wants to try other things, to try and describe how it sounded when she tried his name on her tongue, how it felt when she smacked his shoulder after a bad joke or snide comment, how it tasted when he grabbed her milkshake glass and took a sip, how it looked when she threw her head back and laughed with unadulterated joy not commonly found outside ages 2 to 7. Jughead has been piecing together words and fragments and sentences, folding his arms under his head as he stares at the ceiling and tries to describe in his mind, words that once came easily suddenly stopping and starting like a YouTube video that won't load properly. Everything that springs to mind is correct in the most technical of ways, yet it all seems wrong, or insufficient, or disturbingly and disgustingly paltry. As if every word he conjure is nothing more than meaningless verbal typos, insufficient attempts to put Veronica Lodge to words. 

This is a new problem, with no solution in sight. Ever since the words started slipping into Jughead's consciousness in those early morning hours and late night thoughts, he has been able to sew situations into the pages almost too easily. He can easily talk about how the very air of Riverdale has a slight tint of blue, as if everyone had been secretly outfitted with tinted glasses they can't remove, and how the air always has the slightest nip in it, even in summer. He can easily talk about the way Sweetwater River is never truly still, whether the day is calm or stormy, and how it is very close to impossible to keep in the smallest secret in a town where everyone treats gossip like it's more trustworthy than The New York Times. 

Jughead can easily describe the way Archie's foot taps to the beat whenever he hears a song he enjoys, the way he's constantly running his hands through his hair **_(_** despite Mrs. Andrews' constant admonishments that if he continues to touch it he'll make it greasy and he'll look unkempt and the kids at school will talk about him behind his back **_)_** , how Archie always bends down to give Vegas a scratch behind the ears, no matter what occasion he's late for, how he too smiles with his entire face, just like Veronica Lodge, and how he hates pineapples on pizza but still thinks chocolate and apple sauce go together for some reason. 

Jughead can write without any difficulty of how Betty's golden ponytail always finds some way to move with her, whether she's nodding or shaking her head or frowning or bouncing or writing or simply walking, of the way she always found something that could make her laugh and keep on laughing with a bubbly passion that, just like Veronica Lodge's, reminded him of golden champagne bubbles, and how her endless collection of cardigans looked like they belonged on a rack labeled "Cotton Candy Shades", and how her smiles become ever so slightly forced whenever someone describes her as the perfect insert here. 

Jughead can effortlessly put to paper the way his father's eyes would smile even if his lips hadn't moved, the way his mother would pass a hand over his hair when he was doing his little kid homework, the way Jellybean would cling to his leg and force him to drag her around even when he really didn't want to, and how the heating rattled in their little house and the car only started half the time and the roof sometimes leaked when the rain became too intense and his father's bottles rattled around the trash bags like unseemly skeletons stuffed there by a careless assassin. 

The problem has always been the opposite. He can remember everything, describe it all, even when he would rather curl in on himself and forget. There are things he doesn't want to know, like the way Archie's face closed over when he confronted him about Grundy, the way Betty shrank in on herself when her mother berated her, the way his mother remained stone faced when telling him she was leaving, the way his father clung to him as if his embrace could protect Jughead forever from the world around him before they parted, the way Jellybean sounded so much older the last time they spoke on the phone.

But Veronica Lodge... _Veronica Lodge_ , with her raven hair and her sloe eyes and her manicured hands and her insufferable essence and her perfect smile, has robbed him of his words, and left Jughead Jones with nothing but a twisting feeling in his gut **_(_** as if the feeling he felt when he first heard her infectious giggle for the first time, the feeling that brought a tightness to his stomach and throat and eyes, had decided to stick around and settle down **_)_** and an urge to both groan and grin whenever her Helen of Troy-esque face popped in his mind. It's beyond annoying, and as Jughead shifts and tosses and turns, throwing words out and pulling them back, he still finds that everything sounds like a typo in his mind, like a poorly written short story penned in the third grade that he would have buried under a tree to be eaten by the passage of time. 

_Veronica Lodge. Veronica Lodge Veronica Lodge Veronica Lodge Veronica Lodge. She was. She has been. She will be. She is..._

It comes to him then, the way to encompass the vastness and complexity that is Veronica Lodge, all the beauty he sees and the thoughts she has, all the emotions she elicits and the feelings he struggles with. There is no possible description. She is her own description, and as he thinks it to himself, Jughead realizes it is the perfect way to capture all she entails whenever she enters his mind. Nothing more, and nothing less than three simple words. 

_Veronica Lodge is._


End file.
